The call of nothing and silence scratched at the back of my mind, slowly turning it raw. My skin crawled with anxiety. Fear. I wanted to burst out of this body and not exist.
The warmth of my bed was too enveloping. I had no desire to rise and continue my same, bland routine.
I’ve never been diagnosed with depression, but I know I have been depressed and fought off several bouts of it throughout my adolescence and young adult life. It comes in waves, usually once every three to four months, mild and otherwise.
Having my identity as an individual shattered, emotional torment from my peers, basing my existence on achievements and the deaths of those close to me have, and continue, to contribute to my figurative falling into dark pits of sorrow, hopelessness and sadness. These fallings are less so now. I would be naïve to believe the worst is over.
When hopelessness and perpetual sorrow return to me, so does a degree of numbness to those people and events around me. I even find myself becoming numb to the feelings associated with depression, as if my mind just shuts it off or out.
Depression’s tendrils come back now and again, but they no longer hold the power they once had over me.
Honestly, I think it has to do with me reconciling the objective futility of existence and purposelessness of the universe and constructing goals that are never ending. There was a point where I fully realized how futile everything was because we all become dust and food for the worms. However, the darkness of that thought birthed light though.
I realized that since there was no obvious, overt preordained power, I had absolute control over my life. At that point in time, I had done more than some do in their entire lifetimes. But, I was lost and without purpose.
The purpose I decided to give myself was to do what I love and make a measurable difference in the world around me. The vehicles for doing so are writing and journalism.
My lowest point immediately became my highest point. There are days I still feel the tinges of depression. Those days are the most difficult days because thought of not existing comes with them. Sometimes, for a brief second, I think it would just be easier to give it all up.
But, I remember all things and people important to me and that gives me hope and comfort.
Written by: Anonymous (the writer preferred to maintain anonymity)
This story originally appeared in Facing Depression in Muncie, a publication of The Facing Project that was organized by the Ingelhart Scholars at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana.